What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? (Spoby AU)
by SwearItOnTheStyx
Summary: Spoby AU-Secrets make the world go round. At least in Rosewood they do. In this town, where shadows lurk around every corner, and the lies we tell gnaw at our black hearts, secrets are the oxygen of the people. Everything is withheld; nothing is shared. People lie. And They make the rules. They; They set the rules. They blare the alarms. They play with you, hurt and torture you.
1. Introduction

_**Disclaimer: All the characters, the world and the chapter names included in this fanfiction belong to Sara Shepard and/or Marlene King. None of these are of our own creation.**_

 **This Spoby fanfiction is a collaboration between the accounts HeirOfHell and** **SwearItOnTheStyx** **. There is no set pattern for how we combine our writing, so some chapters may be written entirely by just one of us, and others might be partially by** **SwearItOnTheStyx** **and partially by HeirOfHell. This will be an AU with strong links to the actual storyline. It may also be worth noting that this is based on the TV show of Pretty Little Liars, rather than the books.**  
 **We'll try to post regularly, and are always open for commentary. Hope you enjoy,**  
 **Valen and Annie Xx**

 **(We will also put this on :) )**


	2. Prolouge

_The girl is sat cross-legged in the centre of the room, humming softly to herself as she works. She lays out the dolls before her, never pausing, never resting, not until she's surrounded in a porcelain circle. From afar, you watch her. Maybe it's the way she moves, the way she talks, the rosy hue high on her cheeks, but there's something about that girl that is much akin to the lifeless figures that encompass her. She's their mistress. The living, breathing, ice-cold likeness of the glassy china dolls._  
 _She looks at you then, with those glazed blue eyes, and you notice the cracks on her porcelain face. She lifts a slender white hand and beckons to you. She wants you to play._


	3. Of Late I Think of Rosewood

The doll hospital on the corner of Brogen's Street had been there as long as anyone could remember. The storefront windows were cracked, making the display of toys behind appear distorted, and above the door, the old sign was faded and askew, with letters missing so that by now it read only 'Bge Strt Dol osil'  
Spencer Hastings sniffed in disdain as she crossed the street towards it, broken doll in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other. She was well aware of her car behind her, and the promise of safety within it, so tantalisingly close. The fact of how easy it would be to climb inside and drive far away from this mess of a place was almost over-bearing. But the lady at the bar had been insistent, and Spencer had decided to take her word for it, regardless of how drunk the woman had been. Besides, she intended to keep her promise to Aria.

The door of the shop swung open with a creak, and Spencer stepped elegantly onto the bristly doormat, her hair dripping from the rain. Inside, it was dank and dark. At the far corner of the room, she could faintly discern a rotting countertop, and on the shelves that enveloped the shop, dolls peered curiously down at Spencer, their dead eyes seeing everything; nothing. Instinctively, Spencer gulped and took another step into the musty room.  
"Hello?" She called out to the shadows. For a moment, she was answered with nothing but the hoarse echo of her own voice. Then there was a clatter, and out of a door at the far end of the store, a young girl, no older than six, stuck her head out. Spencer watched in disbelief as the girl rushed to the till, hopped onto a stool and smiled at her in the most business-like way an infant could manage.  
"Can I help you?" The child asked.  
"Uh," Like a peace offering, Spencer held out the broken doll she had in her hand, "can you - or your parents - fix this?" She walked slowly towards the till, and with calculated care, the girl took the toy from her and turned it in her small hands. In the dim half-light, its porcelain skin gleamed. She gave Spencer a sharp nod.  
"I think I can."  
"You can repaint it?"  
"Come back on Monday I'll have it done. You can pay then."  
The girl smiled once more, before turning her attention to the woman who had just walked in.

The four girls in the corner of the cafe watched the barista intently. Like half the town, the teenagers were taking refuge from the rain inside the Rear Window Brew, satisfying the passing time by gossiping. They watched gleefully as their friend, Emily Fields, flirted with her new colleague.  
"What's she saying? I can't hear," Hanna Marin complained. Aria Montgomery sniffed and dug her in the ribs.  
"Shut up," she hissed, "I'm trying to listen."  
The girl Emily was talking to was short and blonde, with a stripy _Hollister_ top and a bob cut grazing her neck. She seemed dwarfed in size by the tall figure besides her, but took it all stride, giggling almost coyly and making jokes. The group of girls in the corner watched joyfully, in parts happy for their friend and in parts happy simply for a way to occupy themselves on this long, wet day. They had been at the cafe for an hour by now, and already they had each found the time to order at least two cups of tea or coffee apiece.  
"Well she'd better hurry up and ask her out soon," Hanna raked a hand through her hair, "because this tedium is killing me."  
"Well that's a fancy word, Hanna," Spencer sniped.  
Notably less involved than the others in watching Emily flirt, Alison Dilaurentis fumbled with her scarf, "do you think she'll ask her out?" She asked shyly.  
Spencer shrugged, "whether she does or she doesn't doesn't matter, this is entertaining."  
"I guess," Ali mumbled, "It's just I-"  
"Guys," Hanna squealed, "they're exchanging digits!"  
Her attention drawn away from Alison, Spencer's head whipped around to where Emily was writing something on the other girl's arm.  
"Did she hold onto that girl's arm for too long?" Hanna asked excitedly. Aria laughed and nudged her.  
"You read into things too much."

When the time came for her break, Emily slid into the spare seat with a smile on her face.  
"I'd tell you what just happened, but you were probably watching with popcorn," she said to no one in particular as soon as she'd sat down. Spencer handed her a coffee, and leaned forwards, elbows on her knees.  
"So what was her name?" She asked eagerly, her long dark hair slipping over her shoulder.  
"Savannah." Emily took a long drain from her cup and set it down with a contented sigh, "we've arranged to meet on Thursday night."  
"Is it a date?!" Hanna exclaimed excitedly. Watching Hanna, Spencer frowned slightly.  
"At night?" She asked "what about the curfew?"  
"Chill out Spencer," Emily smiled over her cup, "we'll be back before the Alarm. Don't worry."  
Spencer wound a piece of hair around her fingers and smiled wanly.  
"Just don't give me a reason to."  
Across from her, Aria let out a deep sigh and checked her watch.  
"We should probably get going," she said, "The Alarm's in an hour."  
Grudgingly, the five girls agreed, and, with the exception of Emily, who had to finish a shift, threw on their coats and stepped out into the crying streets.

This town was a cesspit. Not that Spencer'd ever say that out loud, but it was. An utter cesspit. Rotting and decrepit to its very core, there was filth everywhere, from the grime between the paving stones, to the blackened hearts of the people that lived here.  
And amidst the grimy, tainted streets, Spencer and Ali walked side by side, the sky weeping down around them. As they skipped over puddles and huddled close under an umbrella, Spencer couldn't help but notice how unusually quiet Ali was, as though all ability to speak had been sucked out of her. Her gaze was pinned adamantly on the ground, and she stared at the gritty, loose paving stones as though they held the secrets of the universe.  
Eventually, the silence became too loud, and Spencer had to speak.  
"Are you okay?" She asked, grabbing her friend impetuously by the arm.  
Once upon a time, Alison would have pulled away at her touch. She would have swatted her away and told Spencer not to worry. But times were different now, and instead, the girl glanced up at her through large, doe eyes, and there was something broken within them.  
"It's Emily, isn't it?" Those were heavy words with a heavy meaning, but Ali knew what they meant. For a second, Spencer thought she was going to get an answer from her friend. It looked like Alison wanted to spill. Her expression was forlorn and somber. But then she yanked her arm out of Spencer's grip and, wordlessly, turned away into the rain, leaving Spencer alone in the street with a tatty pink umbrella, wondering if times really had changed as much as she'd thought they had.

It rained for hours. Rained and rained, it was a steady drumbeat as it fell upon the town, the incessant beating of a great god's heart. It drowned out the city, the noise, the silence. Sometimes it even drowned out the Alarms. And so Spencer liked the rain. In a place with such little freedom, the rain- droplets of water that came down from the heavens themselves- was a taste of what lay beyond.  
She lay on her bed, a small smile pressed onto her face, her hands curled tightly around a discarded pillow. Some time ago, her father had come in to ask what she would like for dinner, but other than that, Spencer was undisturbed. Dimly, she was aware that if she lifted her head, she could peer out of the window, and right into Ali's bedroom. But that thought scratching at the back of her mind was as quiet as mouse, and Spencer did not let it in.  
Rather, Spencer closed her eyes and with a smile thought of Emily and coffee and the food her father was cooking.  
And conscious too, of the fact that the fingers of the clock were reaching for nine, she put in her earphones, and together with the beat of her music and the rhythm of the rain, she managed to drown out the wails of the Alarm altogether.

"Did you hear about the new boy who just moved in across the street?" Peter Hastings smoothed down his tie, and executed a perfect clean cut down his portion of chicken.  
"No?" Veronica's brow creased, and she glanced up at her husband, "Who is he?"  
Peter just shrugged and shook his head. "Don't know, really. Some Toby Cavanaugh, I think." Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially, in that infuriating way adults do when they're exchanging dirty gossip politely. "Heard his mother was a patient at Radley. Died there too."  
Veronica just pursed her lips and stared down at her chicken. There were stories about that place; the sort that ordinary folk would whisper and gossip about in hushed voices, then force a laugh and say "thank goodness they're just stories. Then they'd touch wood and try to forget what they'd just heard.  
"How old is he?" She asked instead.  
"Around Spencer's age, I think. Perhaps a little older. I'm not sure about him though," Peter looked at his daughters, a warning in his eyes, "he seems a little... off."  
Melissa smirked and stifled a laugh. "Hmm, well. He would be."  
_

Toby Cavanaugh had been in Rosewood less than twenty four hours, yet he'd already made a name for himself. He hadn't meant to, and it wasn't a good thing. This wasn't a movie, and he wasn't the typical good-looking boy-next-door kid. It seemed to him, that as soon as he'd - gently - shut the door of his father's car, and first stepped out onto the sidewalk, people had been throwing him looks so dirty, they must have rifled through the trash can to get them. Already children had been ushered across the road at his approach, and most people didn't have their shutters drawn before nightfall.  
So he'd been to juvie. So his mother had been a patient at the Sanitarium. So his mother had _died_ at that same Sanitarium. He wasn't his mother, he wasn't an animal in a zoo, and he most certainly wasn't the neighbourhood freak show.

 **So that was the first chapter :) Yes, it wasn't the best, but the first chapters never are xD Anyway, this was short, but expect longer chapters to come - we're on holiday without any wifi or service at the moment, so the only time we can publish is when we get service on the motorway once a day, which is why we had to wrap it up kind of quickly. Hope you enjoyed :)**  
 **Valen and Annie Xx**


	4. The Guilty Girl's Handbook

_**The following excerpt is from the Rosewood Citizenship Guide, issued by Rosewood City Council on the 5th April 1962. It outlines the most significant laws in the Rosewood Manifesto:**_

 _-One must not not stay out after Curfew._  
 _-One must not abuse illicit substances._  
 _-One must not speak out against the authority._  
 _-One must not have sexual intercourse before/outside of marriage._  
 _-One must not purchase a plane, boat, or bus ticket._  
 _-One must not watch the following films (see back of book)._  
 _-One must not read the following books (see back of book)._  
 _-One must not host any unauthorised, informal event._  
 _-Students must not miss school._  
 _-One must not learn a new language beyond their native tongue._  
 _-One must always look their best._  
 _-One must leave their house at least once a day._  
- _One must abide the Alarms._  
 _For full list, see pages 345 to 362, or visit ._

 _ **The consequences of breaking any one of these laws is determined on a Two Strike basis.**_  
 ___

"You shouldn't be having salt, dad," Spencer reprimanded her father, watching him sprinkle a drizzle of salt onto his bacon. It was the early morning - outside, birds sang, a car hummed, and the wind whispered through the leaves. Honeyed light swept aside the curtains, forming puddles on the floor of the Hasting's sitting room, and at the table, for what felt like the millionth time, Spencer urged her father to stop eating salt. And like every other time, Peter looked up, put a finger to his lips and said, "Sh. Don't tell your mother."  
Her elbows on the table, Spencer pushed her fingers through the roots of her hair and sighed.  
"Fine," she blew away a lone strand of hair that hung limply in her face, "but make sure you take your medication. Or I _will_ tell mom."  
Almost in disbelief, Peter laughed and shook his head. "Don't you have school to attend?" He asked.  
"Yes," Spencer agreed, "but I intend to have breakfast first." As if to prove a point, she reached for the charred piece of toast resting on the cooling rack, and began to lather butter on it. When she put it to her mouth, it tasted like ash, crumbling on her tongue, burning up her insides. With disgust, Spencer set the toast back down on her plate.  
"You know?" She said, "I think I'll get something to eat at the Brew. A coffee too."  
"Not so fast," a voice cut through the air. Veronica was striding towards them, her footsteps falling in the pool of light, distorting and fragmenting it. Hastily, Peter swept the salt boat aside and smiled at his wife. Veronica pretended not to notice.  
"Good morning," he said nonchalantly.  
"Good morning," Veronica replied. "Spencer, before you go to school I need to ask something of you."  
Spencer turned around in her seat, carefully dropping her school bag back onto the floor as she did so.  
"Yes?"  
"Don't talk to our new neighbour, please."  
"Mom, I don't even know what he looks like. Why would I talk to him?"  
Veronica spread her arms, "I don't know," she enthused, "it's a small town. I heard he's retaking his senior year at RHS. If he comes towards you, go the other way. I don't want that family or that boy anywhere near ours. Understood?"  
"Sure mom," Spencer said tiredly, "I don't even know what he looks like, but sure."

As it turned out, it was pretty easy to spot Toby Cavanaugh, regardless of whether Spencer knew what he looked like or not. It seemed that it hadn't been just her parents who'd warned their child to stay away from the boy, and the poor kid had a five foot radius of empty space wherever he went. Spencer couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He didn't look dangerous and unstable. When she looked at him, all Spencer saw was a sad, lost boy, who'd been cheated by the world itself.  
Her friends, apparently, did not share that opinion.  
"God, would you look at him," Hanna commented that lunchtime, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Can't believe they even let him into the school. He looks dangerous."  
Alison snorted. "He looks like one of those hairless cats. It's pathetic." All traces of the lost girl from last night seemed to be gone, apparently. Spencer's eyebrows shot up, and she turned to look at Ali.  
"I don't think he looks that dangerous. Or pathetic." She sniffed and waved her fork at Alison, "And what makes you say he looks like a hairless cat?" She challenged. Since that morning, the mood between Ali and Spencer had been, though not exactly frigid, anything but warm and fuzzy. More tepid. Or like the hairless cat Alison was describing. In response, Ali shrugged.  
"He's just so pitiful. Like something that had the opportunity to be beautiful, but couldn't quite manage."  
"Well," Spencer smiled at Ali, "welcome to the real world."

The last lesson on Spencer's timetable was English, as was Aria, Emily and Hanna's. As usual, they walked there together, but today, there was a shift in the atmosphere between them. There was something of frayed nerves and anticipation and a string of anxiety linking them together. Taking this all in, Spencer couldn't help but wonder how one boy alone could cause such fear throughout the corridors. Yes, he'd been to Juvie - he'd gotten a Strike. But so had Spencer, and the treatment she'd received had been nowhere near as dramatic. When she'd had a Strike scored across her name, when she'd come into school with sunken eyes and frazzled hair and a distorted mind; when she'd disappeared those few days and everyone knew why and - No. Spencer would not, could not think about that. No, she'd already built that nice tall wall between before and after, and she did not have the intention of finding ways over it now.

"... We can compare this to William Golding's Lord of the Flies," Ezra Fitz was saying, "Similarly to Ralph's persistence in being good, but getting sometimes roped into his peer's wrongdoings, Hamlet is an anti-hero, who despite being a bad person is, for the purpose of the story line, portrayed as a hero." He paced up and down before the blackboard, his hands moving exaggeratedly, punctuating his every point. They were studying Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , this semester, a subject that usually was Spencer's favourite. However, today, she found it could not hold her focus, no matter how hard she tried. She pinned her eyes on Mr Fitz, and tried to concentrate on his words. Still, she found it quite impossible - like trying to understand a foreign language.  
"Hey," someone nudged Spencer, "can I borrow a pen? Mine's leaked all over me."  
Lucas Gottesman was looking expectantly at her, one hand holding her desk, the other an exploded ballpoint. Ugh.  
"Oh, um," she sighed and began to root through her pencil case. There was little that annoyed her more than unprepared classmates stealing her nice, expensive pens, yet it was a request one couldn't really turn down. Still, just because she was already irritated, and this only fuelled her annoyance, or maybe because she just didn't really like Lucas anyway, but after a moment of contemplation, she handed him the crappy biro she'd found on the floor of the chem lab last week. Then, trying to ignore her increasingly fraying nerves, she switched her attention back to the class, and tried to discern how they had gone from talking about Hamlet's villainous qualities, to discussing last night's headlines.  
After what seemed like an interminable hour, the bell signalling the end of the school day finally went. At the desk behind her, Hanna sighed happily. "Finally," she told Spencer, the brush of clothes against desk audible as she stood up, "A _sound_ by any other name would smell as sweet."  
Spencer rolled her eyes, throwing her textbook into her bag. "That's Romeo and Juliet, not Hamlet," she said condescendingly, "and how can a sound smell?"  
She could almost hear Hanna shrug behind her.  
"Same thing - they're both by the same dead guy writing boring plays in incorrect English."  
Spencer swung her bag onto her shoulders and gasped.  
"How could you even say that?" She demanded, turning on Hanna, "have you even thought about how significant he must be for his legacy to carry on thus far? He - he - his plays are beautiful and insightful. And like all great literature, they boil down to the best themes: love, tragedy, and comedy. I don't comprehend-"  
"-Spence," Hanna interjected, and pointed behind Spencer, to where Mr Fitz was audibly laughing. "We have to leave. Come on guys."  
"Actually," Fitz broke in, "could I borrow Aria please?"  
The girls exchanged knowing glances, and Aria just smiled, "Don't wait up guys," she said, "I'll see you later."

It was only later on, when Spencer was walking past the church, that she remembered: she was meant to tell Aria about the doll. A groan ripped itself from Spencer's chest, so loud that Pastor Ted, working on the plants outside the church, looked up in alarm.  
"Spencer?" He called out to her, "are you okay?"  
"Fine," she snapped as she breezed past him. Oh well, she could tell Aria tomorrow. She couldn't exactly right now - at this moment, Aria was most likely pressed against Fitz, her lips too occupied to pick up the phone. Spencer shuddered slightly, feeling a little guilty at the intrusive thought.  
"Spencer?" Pastor Ted called again.  
Mid step, Spencer turned to face him, forcing a small smile on her face.  
"Are you sure you're alright?"  
"I'm fine," Spencer worried at the buttons on her blazer but continued smiling, "I'm sorry for raising my voice."  
Ted took his hand off his shovel and waved them dismissively, "don't worry about it," he assured her.  
"What are you planting then?"  
The Pastor tapped his nose.  
"It's a secret."

When finally, after her meeting with Pastor Ted and her purchase of another coffee in the Brew, Spencer pulled up outside her house, the road was quiet and tranquil. Cup of caffeine in hand, she pushed open the door of her car and stepped out into the crisp sunshine. It was the best kind of Winter day, where the sky was blue and the sun still shone, but the air felt cold and clean and beautiful. It was one of those days, where one's breath tumbled from one's lips, visible and stark against the barren trees and the cornflower blue wash of the buildings in vicinity, and one of those days too, where the smell of rain and snow hung in the air like a shawl.  
A sudden movement from across the street made Spencer start. Squinting into the sunlight, she peered down the road, curiosity pecking away at her.  
"Hello?" She asked, surprised that any neighbours would be stood outside on their front porch now.  
"Hi," A tentative voice answered a few seconds later. Spencer frowned, leaning ever so slightly forwards as though that would help her see. But there was nothing there. Nothing but trees and houses and blinding sunlight spraying out in all directions.  
Then she saw it, the silhouette of a boy standing a few doors down, staring at her. Toby. Spencer stifled a gasp. She knew it was horrible - she knew it was wrong and inexcusable, but without another word, she frantically yanked her keys out and made haste to open the door of her gate. In a matter of seconds she had darted behind it, safe and sound.  
_

Toby watched the girl disappear behind her gate, a sick feeling in his stomach. It wasn't fair.  
It wasn't fair at all.  
All he wanted was _one_ person. One person to look at him as who he really was. To be his friend. And yet no one would even bother to get to know him, before running away. Like this girl. Her neighbour, who he'd never talked to in his life. She'd scurried away behind a large wall and the comfort of an even larger house, and all he'd said was "hi." So it saddened him, the fact that his chances at having a friend was slipping away through his fingers with every new person he met. And not to mention the fact that the girl was the most beautiful person he had yet to behold in Rosewood.  
Quickly, Toby had come to realise how much appearances mattered in this town. Not only physical appearances even, but how one acted; behaved - how their resume looked. To these people, it didn't matter that he'd been proven innocent of his crime. All that mattered was that at some stage in his life, he had stood behind a pair of metal bars, and that was all they saw. And it was all they ever would see.  
Toby glanced down at the copy of the Rosewood Citizenship Guide in his lap.  
 _Strike one_.


End file.
